Vulture wrote his first letter in the small room behind the clinic.
It was afternoon, the rain had stopped, and the air was perfectly still. He dug out a pack of yellowed stationery from the bottom of his toolbox—the same batch they used for passing mission info ten years ago.
He sat at an old wooden desk, spread out the paper, paused for a moment—then wrote:
To my dear children,
This letter comes a bit late. That's because we're both getting old; just found out about some stomach problems, and we're not moving as fast as we used to.
We got your letter, and we understand what you're going through. We know things aren't so simple.
Your mom and I talk about you often these days. The house isn't as lively anymore—the neighbor's son and his cousin moved out a while ago, so it's much quieter.
But don't worry about us, we're doing fine. We fixed the leaky roof, and everything else that needs looking after is still getting done.
We know what you did, and we know you only acted on your brother's plan. He's always been the clever one.
Don't worry about us. The weather's alright here, and the doctor says we're recovering faster than expected. Sometimes we eat a little less, and don't feel much like drinking anymore.
By the way, the old oak tree in the front yard is still standing tall—actually bloomed last year.
Your mom says once this letter's finished, we should think about moving. This place is too noisy, and the old neighbors have all changed faces.
Take care of yourselves.
—Dad
The letter was sent out under the name of the "Family Communication Program for Incarcerated Individuals," and made its way safely to Federal Correctional Institution, Bastrop.
Three days later, a reply arrived.
The handwriting was familiar, but slower, smaller, more careful—like any extra stroke might give too much away.
Fox sat on the bed, pale but focused, reading the letter Vulture handed him. He unfolded it and read out loud:
Dear Mom and Dad,
We were happy to get your letter. We're doing okay—eating well enough, though the cafeteria food still tastes the same.
I haven't been drinking. And I haven't said anything wrong.
Sis hasn't either. She told me just the other day about that meal we all had as a family—she still remembers the taste of the potstickers and the sound of gunfire in that movie.
Some nights, when the wind gets strong, I remember the trees outside our house, the way the leaves would rustle. I can't hear them now.
Neither of us regrets what we did that day.
You were right—our family can't be split so easily.
If he can still hear us, tell him not to worry.
We've already cleaned up the yard, just waiting for next spring to bloom again.
—Your kids
Fox finished reading, didn't speak right away. Then he opened another envelope:
Dear Mom and Dad,
We're both fine, really. It took some getting used to when we first got here—the "landlord" is a little distant, and the neighbors don't talk much, but we're adapting.
I haven't been drinking. Really. You can trust me. I know this isn't the place to run your mouth, and I always remember what you said before I left—"Only you know whether there's ice in your cup."
The food's alright here, sleep's okay too, just sometimes I dream of the old street. I think of the neighbor's son and his cousin—they moved out recently, and we didn't get to say goodbye.
Please take care of yourselves. It's getting colder, so don't bother sending cough syrup anymore—you two aren't getting any younger.
We'll look after each other, and we're working on something important—the old ledger on the table isn't finished yet. We still remember how to turn the pages, how to write the numbers with our left hand.
Don't worry about us.
Once we're through with this, we'll come home for potstickers.
—
Fox stared at the last line for a long moment, his throat moving, but said nothing.
That line—"the neighbor's son and his cousin moved out"—he saw right away, meant Driver and String were gone.
"I haven't been drinking"—meant: they hadn't talked.
"We're both getting old, found out about stomach problems"—meant they were still alive, but hurt.
"The old ledger on the table isn't finished"—meant they still remembered the revenge plan.
"Write numbers with our left hand"—meant the passwords and instructions Fox left behind were still clear.
"Once we're through with this, we'll come home for potstickers"—meant they were waiting for him, alive.
Fox held the letter for a long time, then slowly folded it and slid it under his pillow.
Vulture watched, didn't speak, just nodded.
He just stared at that paper for minutes, as if waiting for the dead to speak again.
Wind slipped through the cracked window, making the letter shiver at the corners.
Then he looked up at Vulture.
His voice was low, but steady.
"They're still here."
"They're not broken."
Vulture nodded, sealed the letters in a plastic bag.
Fox leaned back, shut his eyes, finally able to let out a breath he'd held for too long.
"Then we've still got a fight."
Fox didn't recover quickly, but he was moving again.
Every morning, he'd sit at the window, disassembling and rebuilding all their comms gear, encrypted chips, and trackers—half practice, half rebuilding his own belief.
In the third week, Vulture returned with an updated dump of the federal database, bought through underground channels. He said nothing, just dropped the unzipped sentencing file on the table.
Fox put on his glasses and started reading, page by page.
Miami: Sentenced to 25 years, no parole.
Matriarch: Sentenced to 25 years, no parole.
Charges: Assisting transnational arms smuggling, knowingly participating in terrorist activity, endangering national security.
Fox got to the last page, his fingers drumming the table, keeping time.
"That leaves only one way," he said quietly. "Break them out."
Vulture leaned in the doorway, chewing on a stick of jerky. "That's not an easy trick."
"I know," Fox closed the file. "I'm not stupid. I'm not walking straight into a federal prison. I'll figure something out. But before that—"
He looked up, eyes as cold and sharp as that night in the desert.
"I want my revenge first."
Vulture nodded. "Time to start hunting."
They launched the tracking protocol—monitoring everything from satellite heat signatures to changes in abandoned asset ownership, from private medical spending to passport records.
Mr. D was good at hiding.
He kept switching identities, routing money through offshore companies, changing up his security team's codenames. He was like a virus—always there, but you could never find the core.
"He's working through intermediaries," Fox said.
"Yeah." Vulture nodded. "We're not after his location. We need to find out who he trusts."
Fox stared at the fuzzy trail of IP logs on the screen and asked quietly, "You still got any old contacts?"
Vulture grinned, showing his teeth.
"Used to know a bastard. Brit. Ex-MI6, but washed out in disgrace."
"Dirty jobs?"
"Dirtier than you think." Vulture scrolled to an old number on his phone. "He taught me how to sneak past radar lines on a trawler. Then worked for a prince, cleaning up drug dealers. Prince turned on him, left him to die in Beirut."
"Sounds useful," Fox said.
"He owes me. Time to collect." Vulture hit dial, voice dropping low. "We can pry open Mr. D's network from his side."
"He might know who D's talking to now. Those old British intel dogs—their noses are sharper than ours."
A few minutes later, the call connected. A distinctly tired, whisky-soaked London accent drifted in—calm, crisp, and utterly unimpressed:
"Good heavens… which one of you degenerates thinks it's appropriate to ring a retired man before noon?"
Vulture clenched his jaw. "Take a guess, mate. Think balder. Think about which bloody asshole still got your number?"
A pause.
"…Bloody hell. Still breathing, are we?"
"Need you for a bit of old work."
"I'm retired,Pal? in case that wasn't abundantly clear."
"You owe me a life."
A quiet breath on the other end. Then, with dry precision and just a hint of theatrical disdain:
"Send me a location. I'll be there in seventy-two hours. And do try not to bleed out before I arrive, won't you?"